


knocked flat in the first round

by sleeplessandcynical



Series: sinners and their repentances [2]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Eating Disorders, Established Relationship, F/F, Fantasy Booking, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, M/M, Self-Hatred, Self-Indulgent, Unintentional Redemption, and that's okay, i just love making bayley swear, i miss american alpha, i'm a garbage fire of a human being, not yet anyway but who knows, synth pop as far as the ears can hear, there's no demons in this one, well i also tried, well seth you tried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-02-27 11:59:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13247787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeplessandcynical/pseuds/sleeplessandcynical
Summary: (a sequel of sorts tospacesuits for everyone, although that's not really necessary reading.)Finn's in a real bad place. Seth is terrible at helping, but he's gonna try, dammit.content warnings: this story contains prominent references to and discussions of disordered eating, depression and anxiety, and self-hate/body shame, right from the start.(there may be a part 2, if i can get my shit together, who knows)soundtrack:Karmella's Game - What He Doesn't Know Won't Hurt Him - "Knocked Flat in the First Round"Atom and His Package - Making Love - "Avenger (Rock Version)"





	knocked flat in the first round

**Author's Note:**

> this is just an absolute wild hair I got when Seth and Jason won the tag titles, combined with some headcanons I’d already been exploring but didn’t have a story for just yet. I feel like other people have to have thought of this one already, but hey, I’m tryin!
> 
> many, many thank yous to never_shuts_up and artemidi for discussing mental health headcanons with me. (as an athlete with an eating disorder, but as a fat athlete who goes through a similar and yet very different kind of shit, one of the things i'm most terrified of is screwing this up. i hope that i did not, at least not too badly.)

Finn doesn’t remember when he stopped eating this time, exactly. It’s always been hard for him — even in childhood, he was prone to long fits of overworking and undernourishing on every conceivable level. It felt as though he could choke out whatever was wrong with the rest of him by simply letting it languish, like pushing one’s vegetables around the plate in the hopes that eventually they’d disappear of their own volition. If he went long enough, the low voice that rumbled from temple to temple would stop pitching fits and grow almost too weak and exhausted to be heard, along with everything else. If he went even longer, perhaps, just one more day, just a few more hours, maybe it would go truly dark. Damaging himself in the process was just, well, the psychological equivalent of friendly fire; a risk he was happily willing to take because, as his mind and its tenant were equally happy to remind him, he didn’t deserve to make it through life flawless and unbowed.

Sports in general, and wrestling in particular, offered a particular sort of savior; suddenly, he had to eat, because if he didn’t, he’d collapse on the field, and the prospect of being a disappointment to his teammates and sparring partners could sometimes out-shout the hate in his own head. Sometimes, he left practice and actually felt hungry. But also, suddenly, Finn found himself surrounded by people who cared way too much about food, or lack thereof, or their size, or lack thereof, or the specific aesthetic intricacies of every single muscle group. He heard over, and over, and over, that  he had to be the best at everything. It wasn’t even an _unwritten_ rule; he’d seen and heard it a thousand times handed out as the first piece of advice to new trainees, himself included. If you’re not nice to look at, you won’t get far, regardless of talent. If you want to make it, you have to be a freakshow, or you have to be perfect.

Finn found himself pulled back and forth between a physical need to support himself and the warm, shaky, exhausted satisfaction of being drained completely dry. His penchant for running himself into the ground paid off in ways that he hadn’t exactly planned for; those same people who chattered incessantly about meal plans and body fat percentages were all too eager to ignore the periodic circles under his eyes and the sickly undertone of his skin because _holy shit, have you seen that guy’s abs?_ Now _that_ was a concept that dovetailed all too perfectly with the ragged hailstorm inside his skull, and when it pushed him harder and further to do more and have less, he never thought once to push back like he meant it. Because he didn’t mean it, not really. It’s not like he deserved to think he was anything special, after all.

While none of the praise and attention was the motivation, per se, it came as an unanticipated reward that lit his grey mind up like a firework, and he added it to the mental list of reasons why it didn’t warrant being otherwise addressed until it became whatever constituted a real problem. It felt good, even when it felt terrible, and so he carried on. Yes, it was often an exhausted, fuzzy slog, but one that was well worth the trouble because, at the end of the day, it was taking him places, and it was mostly, basically, the vast majority of the time, totally under control.

Right up until it wasn’t.

* * *

 

Seth Rollins looks at the love of his life and feels like a right fucking bastard. Finn’s been crying for god only knows how long at this point, and his body is curled up on the couch like it’s trying to violate all known laws of physics and ouroboros itself into absolute oblivion. _Why did it take me so long?_

They work out on similar levels, so Seth did eventually catch Finn waving off meals with a brief hard stare that was almost a microexpression. Maybe the way he plays with his food fools other people, but Seth’s aggressive overthinking leads him to often notice details. Even then, it’s clear in the immediate aftermath that he’d let it pass him by, chalked it up to a thousand tiny things, and the failure ricochets prominently in the front of his skull. He’s been agonizing over the topic for weeks _, is he, isn’t he, should I, is this,_ and in the end his mouth just makes the decision for him.

“Dude, you’re _little_ , you need to eat more before you end up with the cruiserweights,” he’d said at lunch, without really thinking. Sure enough.

Finn’s face slid instantly into a blank, expressionless slate, and Seth’s stomach twisted so tight he thought it might rip itself in half. “You’re right. I am.” He’d pushed back from the table in their apartment and walked to the living room without a second glance.

Seth stayed put at first, finishing his meal and clearing up their plates. He put Finn’s in the fridge, just in case, and loaded the dishwasher with shaky hands. _Oh no you fucking don’t_ , he snapped at his own brain. _Now is not the time for your bullshit. Keep it together._

When he enters the living room, he’s shocked back into clarity by the sound, or lack thereof, of his boyfriend falling apart. Finn is coiled, rigid and silent, but the tears are there, streaming down, and he makes no move towards wiping them away.

Seth wishes he could think of literally any opener aside from the utterly ridiculous, “You okay?” But it’s all he’s got, and it even gets a little laugh from Finn, one that’s sharp enough to cut as he drops down on the floor and puts his head on Finn’s knee.

“It’s not fucking enough,” Finn finally says, and Seth glances up. His eyes are sharp, too, not glazed-over the way Seth gets when he’s been too nervous for too long and it all has to overflow into something. It’s the face of someone running on adrenaline, fumes, and a finely-tuned jigsaw of self-loathing.

Seth takes a deep breath, and lets it out carefully lest it sound like some sort of self-pitying sigh. “What’s not?”

“Everything.” There’s a very long silence, and Seth closes his eyes. He knows Finn hates being stared at, being looked at, being _seen_ when he’s like this, and doesn’t blame him; given time, given space, he’ll get there. “I thought once I got here, once the chaos was over, once I got better, I’d… well, I’d get better.” He allows himself a sniff, and wipes his nose on a crumpled paper towel. “Pushed myself so hard and it doesn’t fucking matter, none of it fucking matters, because I’ll never get up there. Literally and figuratively.” The tears spill over again, and Seth abandons all pretense of distance, kneeling up and dabbing Finn’s eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, easing him in for a tight hug.

“Is this… did somebody say something?” _Because I’ll fucking ruin them_ , he thinks, and then wonders where this crashing wave of anger comes from. It doesn’t take long before he figures it out.

“They don’t have to,” Finn says quietly into his chest. “It’s what they don’t say anymore that sounds like screaming.”

“The next person who tells you to eat a carb can eat a fucking dick, even if it _is_ Dean,” Seth says impulsively, loosening one hand to rub at his face. “I think you’re fucking perfect the way you are. So does everyone else. I swear it.”

“Thanks.” Finn replies automatically and smiles, just a little, but when Seth pulls back a little further, a quick glance reveals that smile never touches his eyes. Then he blurts out, “What if this is all there is?”

Seth’s briefly taken aback, and asks, “What do you mean?”

It’s like Finn can’t speak truth with his eyes open, because that makes it too much, too real. Seth watches those long, dark lashes tremble on his beloved’s cheeks and then Finn asks, in a voice that quivers with frustration, “What if I can't fucking do it?” The insecurity and sadness starts to leak around the edges, intensity snowballing down a hell of a hill at a very, very rapid speed. “What if there's nothing fucking special about me? I've worked so hard to get where I am but all the crowd talks about is my body and all the in-ring is about my _heart_. Who gives a fuck about heart when I'm supposed to be twice the athlete everyone else is? There’s a hundred guys as good as me, better even, who have the skills and the size and the power I never, ever will. Might as well be a piece of furniture, and I don't know why I keep trying.”

“Hey, no,” Seth murmurs, but Finn flinches back violently when he kisses his forehead, thrashes until he’s disentangled himself from Seth’s arms. “You’re amazing. You’re one of the best in the world. I see it. The crowd sees it.”

“Can’t be the hero in my own fucking story. I’m alright for what I am. I’m not alright, period.” Finn shakes his head. “There’s a reason I never got my title shot back.”

The words punch the air right out of Seth’s lungs. Finn’s never brought that up before, not once, and if somebody else did, he’d just give them a cheery smile and chalk it up to the cost of the business, that maybe he’d get there again someday.

“You’re asking yourself for something impossible,” Seth says, trying so hard to ground, to reassure, to get something through Finn’s impassive, clearly painful skin. “And that’s not your fault. The only people who don’t see you are the ones who call the shots.”

Finn doesn’t give him so much as a blink, and it feels like hours pass before he clears his throat and speaks again. “Can you… I just need to be left alone for a while.” He still doesn’t make eye contact, but something clicks, and he adds, “I won’t do anything stupid. Just can’t take you looking at me like that. Don’t want to argue about it, either.”

 _Hell fucking no,_ Seth thinks. _I’m never leaving you again. I’m fucking following you everywhere you go for the rest of our lives to make sure—_ “Yeah. I can do that. Should I wait for you to call, or just come back in a couple hours?”

Finn shrugs. The motion looks like it takes everything out of him. “Coupla hours is alright.”

Seth rubs his hands together, and realizes he’s forgotten everything he’s ever known about leaving the house. “Right. Okay. Yeah. I can do that,” he repeats. _Keys. Wallet. Phone. Jacket. Fuck, what was the first— keys. Keys._ He trips over himself scrambling to get his phone off the charger, like getting out of the house as fast as possible is going to make this better, and the sight quirks the corner of Finn’s mouth just a little.

When Seth’s finally gathered all his belongings, he pauses in front of the couch, hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets. Finn realizes he’s waiting for some kind of cue, and shakes out one hand to get the blood flowing again before tapping his cheek. “Love you, sweetheart,” he says, voice too quiet.

“Love you, too,” Seth says firmly, looking him in the eyes before leaning down and pressing a kiss to the exact indicated spot, nothing more, nothing less.

He shuts the front door, locks it behind him, and leans his forehead against the cold metal numbers for a very long moment. Then he makes a phone call.

 

 _ever think about an option, a different way to be?_  
_let’s round up all the no-good dudes_  
_and put ‘em on an island in the middle of the sea_  
_sometimes it’s hard to believe_  
_that they’re brethren of you and me_  
_i got an excellent idea:_  
_build an island where we dump the rest of the world,  
_ _or maybe just you and me_

* * *

 

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Seth asks helplessly, death-gripping the coffee he can’t even bring himself to drink.

Alexa and Bayley shrug their shoulders in brightly-colored tandem, but the blonde is the first to speak. “I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t think he needed to because it’s not like it used to be. Or maybe he just got nervous. There’s never really a prime time to tell the person you love that you totally hate yourself.”

“But I could _help_ ,” he sputters, confused and indignant.

Alexa rolls her eyes, but not quite as hard as she usually does when Seth is talking. “Maybe. Or maybe you’d make it even more stressful by adding ‘failing the person I love’ to the list of things to worry about. What would you even _do?_ ”

“Well, I mean...” Seth has no idea what he means.

“Exactly. If he needs help, he needs an adult. Preferably one with some sort of degree, and preferably not his significant other, who is”—she flaps her hand noncommittally— “currently shaking like one of those little rat-dogs after it gets a bath.”

He tries very hard to not laugh at the mental image, and clenches his fists on top of the table. “So what, I do nothing? I just sit there and watch him get sicker? Fuck that.”

“Dude.” The exasperation in Bayley’s voice is downright comedic. “You _fucking_ _support him.”_ Coming from her, the profanity is strikingly odd and emphatic. “If he’s afraid you’re not gonna love him anymore, then you love him with all you’ve got. If he’s afraid to tell you stuff, you hurry up and wait until he’s not, and then you shut up and listen. If he asks you for help, you help, even if it’s confusing and weird.”

“Is that how it worked for you guys?”

“I mean, sorta.” Alexa glances over at Bayley and they both grin. “Mama Bear over here was a little _too_ helpful at first. She wanted to come to all my doctor’s appointments, cook all my meals. I had to lay down the law.”

“Guilty as charged.” Bayley blushes adorably. “I was so scared when she got sick, and she was just so…”

“It was normal for me. That’s the, um, fun part about relapses.” Alexa gets the slightest quaver in her voice, and clamps down on Bayley’s hand. “God, that’s still weird to say out loud, even though it is what it is. I was literally dying, and just waving it off like it was no big deal. The ugly thing is, and I don’t know if you get this or if you even _can,_ is that we don’t do this because there’s no reward.”

Seth thinks about the schemes of his own life, the constant scramble for control, the exultant feeling of touching the brass ring after a carefully micromanaged plan comes to fruition. He nods.

Bayley adds, “Look, Finn’s been one of my best friends for years, and he still doesn’t tell me much about what’s going on in that thick Irish skull half the time. He wants to be happy, and he mostly is, but there’s always a thing or two under the surface no matter how good the rest of it looks.” She gives Seth a knowing look. “Nobody’s perfect. But if he’s hurting to the point where even he can’t hide it anymore, or doesn't want to, you might have to step up a little. Or step back.”

“Everyone’s got their own thing,” Alexa continues. “You won’t know what he needs unless he asks you for it, but he might be too far in his own head to ask for much. But if he does—”

“—Anything,” Seth interrupts, clasping his hands in front of his face. “I would do anything.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Bayley says, ruffling his hair affectionately. “Now go talk to _our_ idiot.”

* * *

 

When Seth unlocks the front door of their apartment, it’s dark and entirely too still. Instantaneously hobbled with worry, he does a quick sweep of the rooms. No blood in the bathtub. No anything anywhere. He finishes in the living room, and finds Finn exactly where he left him, in a pile of blankets despite the heat from the radiator. Taking up exactly one couch cushion and no more seems impossible for a grown man, but he’s curled up tightly, knees tucked into his chest and head on the armrest. By the sound of his breathing, he’s finally fallen asleep, and Seth steps into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, wrapping the lid in his t-shirt to muffle the crackle of opening plastic. On impulse, he checks the fridge, and sees that the rest of Finn’s lunch is gone and the plate’s in the sink. _Easier when nobody’s looking, maybe,_ he thinks.

And then he thinks some more. And then he makes another phone call, pitches his voice low and serious, says no more than he thinks he needs to nudge the gears into a slow grind. _Step up. I would do anything._

By then, Finn’s started to stir, but Seth holds back and waits until his eyes are open before speaking. “Hey. I love you. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Finn blinks warily.

Seth swallows. “Being shitty at being there for you. I’m gonna do better. I am doing better. I will. I’m trying. Fuck. _” I’m gonna fix this, and I don’t care if everyone tells me I can’t._

 But Finn still flinches, stretching uncomfortably when he gets up, and Seth backs away, carefully following him down the hall to their bedroom. He’s completely shocked when Finn turns in the doorway and kisses him hard, biting down with a briefly escaped sting of desperation. Instinctively, Seth pulls back, suddenly terrified of the harm he might cause in this fragile moment, but that just makes Finn flinch again, and he looks back with a thousand questions in his eyes.

It's clear that Finn needs this, needs every drop of affection that Seth can pour out, and so he does, laying out one hand on Finn’s chest like he's made of feathers and giving him a slow, gentle kiss that he hopes will cover the trembling in his own nerves.

But even that's too much. Finn is wound so tightly that, in lieu of snapping, he's simply lost all ability to rebound. His eyes are dry and heavy, his nerves hazy and blown out from overuse. It doesn't seem possible for things to be this numb and this cringe-inducing at the same time, but they surely are, and he walks Seth over to bed with a sigh, trying to calm himself enough to tell the fucking truth. He sits on the edge of the mattress; Seth sprawls out in a tangle of limbs and hair, awkwardly trying to finagle out of his jeans. He reaches for Finn’s hand, but gets that stillness again, and draws slowly back.

“Can you—” Finn takes a deep breath. “I don’t think I can be touched right now, love. I’m sorry. Do you wanna stop, or…?”

Seth doesn’t think at all, he just reacts, pressing his palms firmly to the headboard and glancing up, perfectly still. “Do you want to tie me down?”

Finn’s shoulders tighten for the briefest instant and then slump in relief. He bends down and kisses Seth’s ribcage. “Stay like that for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and the soft camouflage of an order closes both their eyes.

Seth wants to open his again, but doesn’t, and sinks into the whispers of fabric as weight shifts on the mattress. Things move and come apart and are taken off in careful pieces and the cool air of the room layers itself between the heat of their bodies. Finn’s mouth is everywhere, hands smoothing the way as he overwhelms Seth with the sensations of kisses and licks and little bites.

“So fuckin’ good,” he mouths into Seth’s chest, but Seth doesn't get it, not yet, doesn't understand that the way he moves apart and back together are their own form of heaven on earth. Finn can feel the hesitance bubbling beneath the surface of his abrupt obedience, feeling around the edges for something, anything he can do to make this count in the language he speaks. “Love, this feels as good and real as the whole world right now. You are the only thing I need.”

Seth whimpers. He feels greedy for how much he needs this, knowing that he can’t give back in kind. “Please, I just… let me do _something_ for you.”

“This _is_ for me, sweetheart.” Finn pauses for a second over Seth’s shoulder. “Every move, every sound you make, those are the touches I need.” Another kiss, another brush of softness.

An image comes into Seth’s head, one so silly he can’t help but speak it aloud: “Like a fucking voodoo doll?”

Finn doesn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely. Imagine what it’ll feel like for me when I’m blowing ya.”

Seth laughs, and at the same time, a huge wave of arousal rolls up his spine, something so visible that it makes Finn shudder too and the pieces start to come together. He makes a mental note to someday figure out how to watch Finn get his cock sucked. It’s the only rational thought he’s capable of right now.

It's terrifying, honestly, to be the center of so much attention and to be helpless to displace it with his own hands or mouth. It's a fire in an empty room, sucking up all the oxygen, making Seth lightheaded with every brush of lips or denim or t-shirt or hands. Finn’s gaze is intense, focused, and so’s the rest of him, methodically traipsing over Seth's body like he's feeling his way in the darkness. Making his way home.

Seth doesn't move. It should by all rights be torturous, and it is, but mostly it's a beautiful and agonizing challenge to tell rather than show, to give back in a different medium from the one he receives. He just absorbs and wills it out again, hoping the feeling will eke its way through his pores at each point of contact like some sort of fallout. He realizes that Finn is telling the absolute truth; he's devoted to their bolted-down feedback loop and everything Seth does, every noise and every rasp of bare skin sets something off within him that cannot be mistaken or contained.

_This. This is what you can do. If you can't give it back to him, you can give it back to the air all around until it crackles and jumps. Everything I am, everything I can._

 

* * *

 

[a few days later.]

 

 _one final round // one last regret_  
_i wish i could // learn to forget_  
_the things you said // mud on my lips  
_ _and i went down // went down after only just one hit_

 

“Seth.” Kurt’s voice echoing through backstage takes on that fatherly tone that makes the entire roster’s ears hurt, because it inevitably fails to soften the blow of whatever shit is about to rain down upon the head of its recipient. “I know you’re frustrated and spoiling for trouble because you can’t get it out of your system. You’re just like your big brother, in that respect, at least. How’s he recovering, by the way?”

The question is supposed to be an innocent one. Probably. But it drags down Seth’s spine like a knife, jolting every nerve ending along the way. Seth stands bolt upright and stiffens, an act that his boss surely notices.

 _Fuck you,_ he thinks, standing up even straighter. “He’s doing fine, and I would very much prefer you not ask me that question again.” His goddamn _teeth_ hurt, which gives him a brief flash of amusement at understanding Dean’s urge to bite everything that gives him trouble.

“That’s good. I was thinking about what to do with you while he’s rehabbing, and I have an idea that has every potential to benefit us both.” Kurt stops, and leans against a wall, blue eyes shining. “Let’s say we got you another tag partner.”

 _Seriously?_ Seth cuts him off. “I don’t think, I mean, I don’t really want one.” He pauses. “Thanks, though.”

Kurt raises his eyebrows, and starts strolling again. “It’s not a question, Seth. You’re getting another partner.”

Seth huffs out a sigh, unafraid to hide his annoyance. “What’s in it for me, then?”

 _That_ pulls Kurt up short, and he turns around, the confusion readily evident on his face. “You get another shot at the tag titles. Isn’t that enough?”

“Is that what you think I care about?”

“I think it’s _one_ of the things you care about, yes.” Kurt’s not entirely wrong. But the thought of doing it without Dean, or Roman for that matter, is just… yikes. It feels like someone just scraped sandpaper up the back of his neck. “I think you also care about fixing some mistakes you might’ve made in the past.”

“I can’t fix any of that,” Seth snaps, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable. “It’s fucking done. I’m making amends the only way I know how, but it’s done, and we are not talking about this anymore.”

“Not for you,” Kurt says softly. “I know how you feel, believe it or not. But if you had the chance to guide someone into not making the same mistakes you did, someone with your level of talent, and arrogance, and drive, I think you might actually pull off something that’s a win for everyone involved.”

Seth sighs again, reaches deep down in his heart, and pulls up the plan. “Under one condition.”

 

 _i’ll wait for you // i’ll wait forever  
_ _forever, forever // it’s the one thing you can do_

 

Kurt is waiting for the new champs immediately backstage, a proud grin plastered on his face.

“Seth Rollins!” Jason Jordan is nearly beside himself, squawking with excitement. “Raw tag team _champs!_ This is _so cool!”_

Seth pulls up a very fake smile and grits his teeth for about the thousandth time. This is going to be interesting. 

“So when’s the fucking rematch, Kurt?” he says briskly, all business as Jason bumps up to his dad’s side.

Kurt shrugs, and opens his hands in a gesture of mock surrender that immediately makes Seth’s breathing shorten and his guts clamp down. _Oh no. Oh, no, don’t you dare—_ “That’s not really up to me.”

Before he can finish, Seth is advancing on both of them, ice in his eyes. He feels numb, and a bit like giggling at the stupidity of the whole situation. _Of course. Of fucking course._ Like anyone around here knows how to drive an honest bargain, or would if they could.

He enunciates each word crisply, like a sledgehammer driving the point home. “I did _exactly_ what you sent me out there to do. Now it’s your turn.”

Jason pulls up short. “Wait. Dad told _me_ that if we won, I’d…” he trails off, flicking his eyes to Seth’s and away again, shoulders slumping under the weight of guilt and realization. “He said me and Chad could get back together.”

“I said I would try,” Kurt corrects. “No promises. I did my best, but it’s completely out of my hands—”

Seth interrupts him with a bark of bitter laughter, and pats the belt on Jason’s shoulder. “Kid, we _both_ got played for cash cows.”

“I’m so _stupid_ ,” Jason whispers, looking like he’s ready to cry. The transformation from cheekiness to utter devastation is almost profound in its thoroughness. “I’m so stupid.”

But Seth’s already shaking his head. “It’s probably not your dad’s fault, if it’s any consolation. He’s, like, 95% errand boy. I should know.”

“I’m _right_ here, Rollins.”

“I do _not_ care, Angle.” And with that, Seth clicks into peacock mode, shoulders tight and emotions on lockdown, arrogant smirk coming home to roost. He turns to Jason, ignoring Kurt’s indignant facial expression as though the man himself has simply ceased to exist. “I’ll figure something out. We’ve got this.”

Seth does not have this _at all,_ but he’s not about to let the kid know it. He makes it around the corner and behind a stack of equipment crates, setting the title on top before the first sob breaks free of his lungs. He tries to disguise it with an inhale, but literally and figuratively chokes, coughing violently as his stomach twists into knots and he tries so, so hard to hold himself up while tasting bile and starving for oxygen. When the spots finally wiggle free of his vision, he hears footsteps, and quickly scrubs his face and hair with his hands in a vain attempt to hide the evidence of tears.

“Love? That you?”

“…No?”

Finn huffs to conceal a small laugh. “Can’t blame a man for being emotional,” he says, carefully tilting his head to examine Seth’s face, tracing a thumb gently over where he’s rubbed his eyes raw. “It’s been a big day.”

The truth retches out before he can stop it. “I fucking blew it, Finn. I thought I had a chance to make things better, and I fucking blew it. I ruined things for both of us, just like I always fucking do. Angle made me a promise, and I was an idiot and believed him. So once again, I screw everyone around me. Even JJ is shit out of luck now.”

Finn’s brows knot in confusion, and he tilts his head. “Seth, what have you done?” His face is bewildered, eyes wide like a child.

“I was trying to get your championship back.” Seth trails off, suddenly uncomfortable with the weight of that gaze on him. “I thought… you’ve just been so fucking hard on yourself about not being good enough and I thought—”

“Oh god.” Finn drops his face into his hands and leans on some perilously-stacked equipment. “You didn’t.” But he's not angry, and sadness is only one of about a thousand emotions his voice attempts to convey. “You put all this on the line to, what? Politic me into something you thought would make me happy? Why didn’t you just ask first?”

Seth finds himself blushing, of all the involuntary reactions. “Well, when you put it like that…”

“I would have told you no, absolutely.” Finn shakes his head, but he’s smiling a little, and even in the dim backstage lighting, it looks close to real. “I would’ve told you I don’t deserve that, that I don’t need it, and that I want to do it on my own terms.”

“But you can’t,” Seth blurts out, and Finn glances up, gaze withering and sad for the briefest instant. “I mean, they’ll never let you. Not on your own. This place is full of assholes, and backstabbing, and bullshit disguised as business decisions, and, and, and, oh god please stop looking at me like that, I’m so sorry.”

Finn crouches, and drops back against the wall with a dull thud that mirrors the throbbing in his stomach. “There’s so many fucked-up things about this. For one, what makes you even think I’d win? Waste of a perfectly good favor, even if it hadn’t backfired quite so spectacularly. Why wouldn’t you use it on yourself?”

_Waste of a perfectly good favor. Not good enough, never good enough, hope is the cruelest fucking joke._

Seth scrabbles across the floor, stopping to rest only when he feels Finn’s knee underneath his cheek. Familiar hands rake their way through his sweat-soaked hair, down his back, tap little circles onto his shoulderblades. “You’re not a waste of anything. I’ll say it a thousand times every day if I have to: it was a dumb move. But I don’t fucking regret it. You deserve the chance you never got.” He pauses, wiping the leftover sweat from his beard as he looks for the right words. “And this is what I do. I make things happen. Or I try, anyway.” He chokes up a little at the reminder. _You’re a human fucking crowbar; you wedge your way in and pry apart and if that doesn’t work, you bash it to pieces in order to get what you want._

Finn scratches the back of his neck. “I don't think, ehm, acquiring your partner a one-way ticket to Suplex City counts as one of those ‘love languages’ your mum is always on about. Fact is, I feel like that’s better saved for people you _don’t_ like.”

Seth rolls his eyes up to catch Finn’s for an instant. _I see you._ “Do you think I’d go to all this trouble if I didn’t think you could whip Lesnar in a reasonably fair fight? Give us both a little credit.”

“I say this with all the love in my heart: you are a fucking idiot.”

“That’s what Bayley said, too,” Seth admits, and Finn laughs out loud and considers sending her and Bliss flowers as he stands up and offers a hand.

They lean on each other hard on their way to the parking garage; Seth weak from exhaustion and Finn weak from uncertainty. _It’ll never work,_ he thinks. _It’ll never work because I don’t deserve it to work, because my strength is not in being strong. But what’s one more, after all these years?_

A dangerous feeling starts to bloom. Careful, careful, always careful, always saving up scraps and setting them apart in neat little rows for all the times they’ve gone without and all the times they still might. Finn puts the car in reverse, turns his head, and Seth’s already piled into an unflattering mess against the window, fast asleep, hair all frizzy and leonine around his face and Finn’s suddenly grateful that he’s never been one to lack for heart either, even if perhaps it’s not always aimed in the most optimal direction. He reaches over to set a hand on Seth’s knee, and Seth hums in response, curling even further into the seat in a way that makes Finn’s chest ache. He can’t know the future and it burns him up inside, but that sharp sting of anticipation corrodes the coals he’d stored away, turns his eyes to focus like a whip strike as they drive.

There’s a lot to think about. A lot to pull out of sticky old drawers and break into pieces in the night. A week to fall apart and come together and do the best they can.

 

* * *

 

 _well i’m on the run // and i’m bound to lose_  
_made up your mind // to never choose_  
_your hand touches // can’t take it back  
_ _you can’t deny // can’t say you never wanted this_

 

The following Monday, Seth and Jason meet in gorilla, and Seth straightens Jason’s tie carefully before turning an eye to what he can see of his own. It’s nothing fancy — black on black on black — but the tie is stolen straight from one of Finn’s drawers, and the fabric soothes his anxious hands before he jams them in the pocket of his trousers and feels the tiny square of leather he still keeps there every second of every day.

The crowd lets out an absolutely astronomical amount of noise as they part the curtains, but it’s impossible to tell if it’s anger, or joy, or self-righteous exasperation. Probably all of the above, and a few other things to boot.

Seth walks first, shoulders squared, belt slung over his shoulder. He thinks, wildly and inexplicably, of the last time he was in a wedding, a Catholic wedding of all things, and how the priest had lectured them for what felt like days on not walking down the aisle too fast, and that basically any forward motion at all is too fast when you’re trying to make a point. _Get on with it,_ he thinks, and then doesn’t get on with it, taking every last second to soak in the cheers, boos, and outstretched hands, and when he finally reaches the apron he looks back at Jason Jordan for the first time since they stepped out. He’s looking like some sort of GQ cover model in his nice suit and shiny new belt, and the grin on his face is positively shit-eating.

Seth follows his gaze back to the ring only to find Kurt looking apo-fucking- _plectic_ , the vein in his forehead threatening to take on a life of its own.

Seth hops on the apron, wipes his feet, and then—

_“Where’s Dean Ambrose?” Clap. Clap. Clap-clap. Clap._

He feels a flash of fear. The chant repeats. And again. And then something in him squares off with something in everyone else, and he straightens himself, hefts the championship on his shoulder, and turns on the mic.

“Sorry to keep you, Kurt.” Seth’s not sorry. Everyone knows it. “I know it’s gauche to be late to your own party. But I think you’ll agree that this is a reasonable excuse: your son and I were having a very, _very_ enlightening conversation.”

The crowd goes deathly silent, and Seth turns to them next. “Dean Ambrose isn’t going to be back anytime soon. We all know that. It sucks, but at least we know. And maybe you think I came out here to replace him. But you’re absolutely wrong. Nobody can ever replace Dean Ambrose.” The crowd rumbles their approval, at least for the moment, and Seth takes a deep breath and pulls every ounce of brat he's ever had out of his lungs.

“See, universe, I didn’t come out here and win these championships with Kurt Angle’s bastard son because I cared about being a winner. We came out here and won for two reasons, and two reasons alone, both of which were promised to us by this man, _your_ General Manager.”

He glances pointedly at his tag partner, who takes a microphone of his own.

“Dad,” Jason swallows, looking on the verge of tears. “You know I love you, and I’m grateful for the opportunities you’ve given me. But at the end of the day, those opportunities were insults.”

Kurt’s jaw falls open.

“You didn’t think I could win on my own. You believed in me so little that you, and Triple H, and the rest of the family put Seth and I in this situation. Maybe worst of all”—and his voice cracks a little at this—”You took me away from Chad.”

He goes quiet in a chorus of booing, and Seth immediately takes over, lets his arrogance shine out on full display. “See, the problem, Mr. Angle, is that neither of your champs are very happy right now. I’m no Chad Gable, and Jason here is, sorry kid, definitely no Dean Ambrose.”

“It’s not like I can bring Ambrose back any faster—” Kurt begins, but Seth and Jason both cut him off with a glare and he quickly shuts his mouth.

“You’re right. You can’t. That’s out of anybody’s control. But there’s something else that _isn’t_ out of your control, and that you owe me.” Seth grits out those last four words as independent sentences, as emphatic as he can possibly offer.

“Yeah? What’s that?” Kurt’s gaze is cautious. There’s clearly a right answer to that question. Too bad Seth doesn’t give a fuck about what it is.

Seth steps back, and eyes his fellow champ. “You owe your _kid_ his partner back. And you owe _me_ Finn Bálor.”

The crowd collectively gasps.

The lights cut out.

The gasp changes to a roar, an incredible one that booms from the floor to the rooftop, a crushing wave of sound that almost drowns out the swell of music. The overall effect is deafening. Seth smiles as the hair on his arms stands on end.

Backstage, Finn feels a hand on his shoulder, and jumps about six inches in the air as he turns away from the tv and gets an eyeful of shiny hair.

“Ahh. Gable. You coming with?”

“Ready and willing,” the Olympian says, and grins. Finn remembers like it was yesterday how terrified the young fella used to be of him, and pats him fondly on the arm. Chad’s barely five-eight, and it’s strangely reassuring to have similarly-sized backup.

Finn pops his collar. “You want to beat up Kurt Angle?”

“If that's what it takes.”

A shiny head pops around the corner at the familiar cadence of phrase. “Who are we beating up?”

Finn can’t help a tiny smile. “Well, would ya look at that. Two bad Chads.”

“I’m just here for the chaos. You want help? I can go find Doc, speakin’ of.”

The smile seems to break free and goes ear-to-ear, Finn’s eyes crinkling with delight. “Make it quick.”

 

 _and i will wait forever // these things will never wash away_  
_and i will wait for you // will you even notice?_  
_and i will take the long road // and leave things just the way they are_  
_and i will, i will never change // i will, i will wait for you_  
_i'll wait for you //  i'll wait forever_

 


End file.
